If you want, I can have a sticky-beak around the stack, see if I can find out what made Eddie...."
"Negative, Bill!" barked Pierce. "Forget the stack. Just get out of that stuff and come up."
"It's gone Jack. As soon as Eddie went, it kind-of disappeared."
"Come up anyway. Make your ascent steadily. Observe natural decompression, but if something else happens, something peculiar - anything, Bill - just come straight up. You can keep Eddie company in the chamber. And talk to me all the way. All the way, do you copy?"
"Five by five, Jack. I'm on my way. Moving up past the blue pod. I can see traces of hydraulic...."
Pierce was listening to every word, but he was more interested in the tone of Bill's voice than in what he had to say. Still listening, he spoke to the standby divers waiting beside the moon pool, giving them just enough information, but no more. Then he returned his attention to the two men in the room with him. He looked at them, at their faces. Bromley was genuinely concerned. Meyer looked like a father who had received news that his kid had crashed the Volvo. Top of his list of phone calls would be the repair shop. Somewhere in the rest was the hospital.
Pierce spoke directly to the toolpusher. "Eddie's had a spot of trouble. We don't know what it was yet. Maybe we'll find out when he comes up." He paused, listened to Rose's commentary for a moment then continued. "He seems to be in shock, so he won't be observing the usual decompression stops on his way up. You heard me organising the chamber. As long as we get him straight in, he'll be okay."
6
Usually when a diver was coming up it was necessary to retrieve the air-line at a rate compatible with the speed of ascent, giving consideration for decompression stops. Also, bubbles preceded him into the moon pool, announcing his arrival. In this instance, however, Eddie came up so fast that even the escaping air couldn't keep up with him. If anyone had doubts that his achievement was physically possible, Eddie laid those doubts to rest when he hit the surface.
The moon pool exploded. It was like the after-shock of a depth charge. A surge of white foam heaved up in the centre of the pool. A retrieval diver was already in, treading water near the edge, waiting to catch Eddie as soon as he surfaced. The wash hit him, slamming him against the steel plating of the side. Then it drew him back and he was spluttering sea-water.
Those standing around on the catwalk caught their breaths in surprise and a moment later felt spray on their faces. Kenny Pratt recovered quicker than the others. He looked for the retrieval diver and saw him floundering about half-way to the centre of the pool. "Angelo! You okay?"
"Shit!" spluttered Angelo, then: "Yeah. Where is he?"
Kenny looked and was unable to spot Eddie at first. Then someone shouted: "There!" Kenny saw him. At least, there was a rat-hat bobbing around near the middle, just in front of the slip joint. The turbulence was easing and the water was returning to its original, flaccid murkiness. "To your right, Wog," Pratt called out. Angelo turned and began paddling towards the hat. It was slowly sinking. He grabbed below the surface where he thought Eddie's body suit ought to be and missed. The hat had disappeared. Angelo duck dived. He was back up again in a matter of seconds and gasped out: "Got him!"
Eddie came in like a tired fish. It took a few grunting, puffing, anxious moments to drag him up the ladder to the catwalk. They were precious moments, all ticking away much too fast. More were wasted taking the helmet off.
Faces gawped. They were the same kind that sought out disasters like road accidents, those drooling countenances hungry for stimulation, excitement. Above all, they wanted to witness gore and dying, maybe figuring if they saw enough of it, they wouldn't have to experience it themselves first hand. They shuffled closer. There was nothing to fear, not from a man who was lying either unconscious or dead.
Then MacFarlane let loose. The action appeared subconscious as if the young diver was in the grip of a terrifying nightmare and battling with an imaginary foe. Nevertheless, the surprised crowd leapt back. Someone reeled as Eddie's flailing arm slapped his head. The victim fell against the bystanders, pushing them further away.
They all watched. Eddie opened his eyes and stared up at the underside of the rig floor above him. His expression was not one of confusion as might have been expected. Rather, he seemed eminently satisfied. His eyes had that strange twinkle of latent insanity and his mouth opened wide. He appeared about to laugh, but all that issued from his throat was a long, orgastic sigh.
He sat up. There was no effort involved. He didn't use his elbows or his hands to assist, just bent from the waist and sat up. His legs were tucked beneath him in the relaxed way a young woman might be apt to sit. He panned his gaze around the circle of people and grinned. A giggle vibrated in his throat. Kenny Pratt started out for him, berating the others close at hand. "Come on, you bastards, let's get him up." Eddie turned to Kenny and giggled again. Kenny was stooping, reaching out. Eddie took his hands and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "The blanket," Pratt ordered, then said to Eddie: "You're alright now, mate."
Eddie giggled.
Pratt's expression changed. The benevolent smile was contorting. Eddie began to squeeze harder and Kenny heard the cracking as the bones in his hands splintered. It took a moment to overcome the disbelief that Eddie, his friend, could be doing this to him, and another for the pain to really register, then, he started to scream. The scream broke off as he was hurled sideways. He hit the guard rail and tipped over it into the pool.
Eddie advanced towards his audience. There was a scurry of feet as they moved back. Col Stokes was off to the side. He couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. So the kid had gone a bit crazy, so what? The bends did that. Col wasn't a diver himself, but he wasn't stupid. You didn't work on rigs for two years and learn nothing. Even if he was only a roustabout, he'd seen enough of this sort of thing to know that the kid needed the chamber pretty quick. It should be easy enough to get him in. Christ, he was only a runt. Couldn't be more than ten stone. Col would have had half as much again on him.
He pushed his way through and advanced on Eddie. "Take it easy, kid. No-one wants to hurt you." MacFarlane turned. His eyes were wild and he was still grinning like a village idiot. Eddie opened his smiling mouth and produced another of his satisfied sighs. Col caught the blast full in the face. Jesus, what had he eaten for lunch? His guts must be rotten. "Come on, kid. Come wi__."
Eddie launched himself at the man. In a second, he had turned into a kicking, punching, gyrating madman that even Col Stokes couldn't get close enough to subdue. Eddie drove him back against the guard rail. Col's hands were up, trying to defend himself. "Help me, you bastards," he cried out. "Get him off!"
A hand touched MacFarlane's back and retreated hastily. "It's me - Angelo." Eddie seemed to stiffen on hearing the announcement. Angelo tried again. "It's Wog, Eddie. We just want to help."
MacFarlane spun in a circle. His outstretched arm missed Angelo's face by a mere whisker. By the time Eddie was facing front again, Col Stokes had recovered somewhat and his pride was hurting far more than the bruises Eddie's blows had caused. "Right, you little punk, that's it!" He moved to clutch the young diver in a bear-hug.
Eddie's hand shot out and clamped on his throat. Stokes gagged, then his eyes began to bulge. His hands went up automatically to Eddie's wrist and tried to pull it down. When they failed, Col started clutching at the fingers in an effort to prise them loose. The pressure increased. Stokes was unable to breathe and, incredible though it might seem, he could feel himself rising until his feet no longer touched the ground.
The crazy man that
